


A Winding Path

by ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Little Red Riding Hood Fusion, Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley also has Ghibli hair, Crowley is either very good or very bad at being a demon take your pick, Demon Crowley (Good Omens), Drama with a Happy Ending, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Other, References to Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Spooky, fairy tale levels of horror, look it's little red riding hood some minor characters are going to get eaten, non-graphic descriptions of blood and injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: They send her into the dark wood with a basket of wine and cakes and a cloak as red as the lining of a matador's cape.A Red Riding Hood fairy tale fusion written for the Trickety-Boo event (Spookiness Rating: 3 - mind the tags!)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 102
Kudos: 187
Collections: Trick-Or-Treat!





	1. Lovely, dark and deep

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Trickety-Boo!, a mini event for the GO Events discord. This gets a Spookiness Rating of 3 for minor character death, non-graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, references to emotional/psychological abuse, and general old-school fairy tale levels of horror. Take care of yourselves!
> 
> I was definitely hugely inspired by [gingerhaole's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerhaole/works) [Halloween DTIYS](https://gingerhaole.tumblr.com/post/629803532107825152/its-time-for-another-halloween-dtiys-redraw-this). <3
> 
> Huge thanks to my betas, [onlysmallwings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onlysmallwings/) and [cumaeansibyl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumaeansibyl/pseuds/cumaeansibyl).
> 
> This story is 100% drafted and I'll post a new chapter every few days to draw out max spook factor. :D

They send her into the dark wood with a basket of wine and cakes and a cloak as red as the lining of a matador's cape.

At the end of the winding, shadowed path is Grandmother. She is a woman great in both years and wisdom. Aziraphale is to bring her the gifts and beg the honor of her guidance and correction.

If she pleases Grandmother, she will receive a commendation. Without it, she will not be allowed to continue her studies. She will not be allowed back in the library. She may not even be allowed through the village gates.

She stands at the edge of the wood and stares into the gloomy depths. The path is weed-choked. It curves sharply to the right into mystery only a short ways in, too soon for the perpetual twilight of the choked canopy to have a chance to obscure it. From here, she can't hear anything of what might lurk within the densely packed trunks of the trees. Too muffled by the thick undergrowth and leaf fall, or else too masked by the hum of the bustling village at her back.

It's the withering end of autumn, late enough that both harvest and preparation for looming winter are done and they can afford to spare her for the pilgrimage. The wind picks up, and the cloak, despite covering her from head-to-toe, does little to keep her warm. It shows its age and wear in the thin patches at the shoulders and elbows, the numerous tears and rips that have been darned with an indifferent hand and let draughts slip through. The only care the village leaders have shown in its upkeep over the years is in maintaining the screaming hue of the color.

Aziraphale, in fact, having already been handed her marching orders, was the one tasked with performing the dye job. Her hands had been stained with the juice of beets and unripe elderberries for days. The feeling of the other villagers' stares, sometimes pitying and sometimes sneering, that had pricked the back of her neck as she worked the big vat over the fire she'd been forced to build outside her cottage had lingered even longer.

"What are you waiting for?" Gabriel's voice calls across the small meadow that stretches between the edge of the wood and the wall that surrounds the village.

When she glances back, he's standing with the other leaders at the open eastern gate. They watch her with expressions that range from bored to impassive to smug.

Heat crawls up the back of her neck at being called out for her hesitation. It's a mix of shame and frustration. She does think she should be braver about this. Most people who make this journey return, after all.

But the wood does have a reputation—Grandmother has a reputation—and everyone who has come back has come back… different. Smaller, quieter. Less likely to lift their eyes from their tightly clasped hands.

Aziraphale isn't an idiot, is the point. They shouldn't expect her to be eager about this, for all that she's prepared to fall in line. Not that she has a choice, about the woods or Grandmother or any of it. But then, her expectations rarely align with the leaders'.

And that's the point that supersedes the rest.

She locks her gaze on the bend in the path. If she goes that far, at least, she can pause again to collect herself unobserved.

With a deep breath, she crosses the treeline.

The shadows and hush of the trees fall over her heavier than the cloak. Immediately, the sound of the village is obscured. The silence of the trees is complete. No rustle of wind through leaves or scurry of small things in the undergrowth.

Goose flesh prickles over her scalp.

When she ventures a look over her shoulder, the wall appears much further away than before. The shapes of the leaders are vague with distance; the wall itself looks like a tumble of stones lined up like a child's play fort. Turning back, the tree trunks appear doubled in girth and the bark darker, rougher.

The wheeze of her breath through her nose sounds as loud as a scream beneath the silent judgment of the trees, and Aziraphale fights to keep calm and take stock.

It's her own anxieties playing tricks on her mind, she tells herself firmly. Or, at worst, the wood performing parlor tricks to try to shock and awe her. But nothing has leapt out at her, and she doesn't feel watched. The wood is simply large and silent. And _rude_ , she decides, if it is indeed playing tricks on her. And if this is all it has to scare her with, well, it isn't so bad. The bend in the path, at least, doesn't look any closer or further away than it did before.

Keeping in mind there's no reason to think the leaders' perspective has changed, and that she must look to have taken a single step and frozen up like a twit, she gamely takes a second step forward. Then another, and another, until her gait is approaching normal and she's nearly to the bend, cloak catching and rustling around her sturdy boots.

Within a minute, she's rounding the bend in the path. This time when she looks back, she can see nothing but trees and the now leftward curve of the path where it leads back to the meadow.

Releasing a trembling sigh through her nose, she stops and closes her eyes, fighting for a moment of clarity and recentering.

"What's a tender morsel like you doing out alone in the big, dark wood?" croons a low, sibilant voice from her left, so close she thinks she feels a warm puff of breath against her temple.

Aziraphale jerks away and swallows a shriek as her eyes pop open.

Beside her is a human-shaped creature staring at her with glittering yellow serpent's eyes. Red hair curls rough and wild in a spill like blood over their black-clad shoulders and chest. Though their hands hang casually at their sides, peeking from the cuffs of whatever long robes or tunic they're wearing, the fingers end not in round-tipped nails but in dark points like talons dipped in ink. Their bare feet are so black they almost blend in with the dark dirt of the trail, but the toes are too pointed. There's a pattern that emerges where the ankles might be; the black stipples, looking almost like scales, and fades at last into too-pale skin. But the part that has Aziraphale's heart stuttering into a gallop is the creature's mouth, which stretches a little too wide with a few too many teeth that are much too pointed as it grins at her.

"What's the matter?" the creature drawls, making no movement toward her but still managing to seem like they're looming closer. "Serpent's got your tongue?"

Aziraphale opens her mouth and says, with only the faintest tremor to her voice, "That's not how the saying goes."

The creature's grin stiffens a bit. "Eh?"

Taking a steadying breath and squaring her shoulders, Aziraphale says more firmly, "The saying is 'cat's got your tongue,' not 'serpent.'" She hugs the basket closer to her, and under the shadows of the cloak slips her hand beneath the cloth covering and grasps the neck of the heavy wine bottle. Not as good as a knife, but that's all the way down in her boot.

The creature jerks its head back on its neck and frowns at her. "Well, yeah, but I'm not a cat demon, then, am I?"

"I s-suppose not," Aziraphale stutters out, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and a cold flush sweep over her. "A serpent demon, I take it?" she manages and feels her lips twitch into an appeasing smile all on their own.

The creature preens—there's no other word for it—and the too-sharp grin is back. "There we are. Now that's sorted, how about we get back to my original question: What's a tender morsel like you doing out here alone?" The grin stretches impossibly wider. "Don't you know there's demons lurking in these woods?"

Aziraphale shudders, pasted-on smile slipping, and clenches her jaw briefly. Sweat breaks out on her palms and she resists the urge to lift her hand away from the wine bottle to wipe it away. She nods jerkily.

"I'm on my way to Grandmother's house."

The demon stills, which only serves to highlight how much restless movement they were leaking before. The yellow eyes narrow as they take in Aziraphale from head to foot, eyes lingering on her head where the cloak hood mostly obscures her white-blond hair.

"A red riding hood," the demon observes, and this time their voice sounds tight.

"Yes," she admits.

"What did you do that made everyone so upset?"

Aziraphale shrugs. "Ate too much, read too much, got too particular about my clothes and the few pretty things I have, asked too many questions..."

The demon nods slowly. "You're not the first I've come across in these woods, wearing that cloak, off to Grandmother's house."

"No," she agrees.

"Hmm... Want a tip?"

Aziraphale's brow pinches in confusion. "I… what?"

The demon sidles a step closer and the movement is too fluid, their hips weaving out of sync with their feet so the saunter looks like the whip of a snake's tail made vertical.

"You've got some treatsss in that basket of yours, don't you?" the demon purrs. They flick a forked tongue out to taste the air before Aziraphale's face, and it's close enough—the demon is suddenly close enough—that she flinches in surprise. "We could make a deal, hmm?" the demon rumbles, quieter now that there's only maybe half a metre separating them. "You let me have a taste of whatever goodies you've got in there, and I can give you some advice on how best to navigate the wood."

They don't reach for her with their hands, but she can feel the hem of their robe brushing the bottom of the cloak. When she glances down, it looks like an invisible wind or a writhing mass of... something lives in the skirt of the demon's robes, billowing them forward to menace the edges of the cloak.

"Oh," she exclaims, unnerved, "would you please keep your clothes to yourself?"

The demon's eyebrows leap up, and they look down too. "Oi, stop that," they say, and the fabric settles. With a sly glance at her, they shrug. "Demon thing. Anyway, I smell aged cork, so I'm betting there's wine in there. Come on," they drawl, tipping their chin toward the basket, still half-obscured within the folds of the red cloak, "give us a tipple and we can get you sorted. I've got shortcuts and scenic routes, whichever you prefer."

Aziraphale's heart is pounding. This is several orders more bizarre than anything she encounters in her relatively quiet life. And while the demon doesn't seem particularly rapacious or murderous or torturous or any other undesirous -ous that her mind can conjure with a serpent demon looming near, it doesn't bear thinking how that attitude might change if she denies them something. In her experience, it's unwise to deny people who loom when they ask for things.

Still, the demon had not seemed disconcerted with either her earlier correction or her request, which is a sight better behavior than she typically experiences within the village, so…

"Look, um—oh, what should you like for me to call you?" she asks.

The demon blinks at her slowly and tilts their head to the side. "You want my name?" they ask, tone conspicuously casual.

Aziraphale can't help a reflexive frown. "If I wanted to be very rude, I might ask your name," she returns. "I may not have met a demon before, but I do _read_. I think it might be easier to, um, negotiate if I can call you something other than 'demon' or 'hey you.'"

The demon tips their head back with a pleased-looking smile stretching their mouth. A few snaggly fangs glint through the seam of their lips. This close, Aziraphale can see what she took for a half collar on their robes is actually scales creeping up the sides of the creature's neck, a few freckling the underside of their chin and along their jaw. She realizes that other than that one curious blink before, she hasn't seen them close their eyes once in the whole conversation. Though they protested they weren't a cat, she can't help but feel like a mouse caught under the paw of a lazy, slinky feline who is thinking it might be a jolly good time to release and recatch their prey a few times before swallowing it whole.

"Aren't you a clever one," they murmur from deep within their chest. They move abruptly, circling behind her with their hands clasped behind their back, keeping their strange, nearly luminous eyes fixed on her the whole time.

Aziraphale tracks them nervously until her neck starts to hurt and she reluctantly faces forward again. She doesn't want to give them the satisfaction of turning, but that means the hair on the back of her neck stands on end as she hears the susurration of scaled feet at her back. Briefly, she closes her eyes and lets all the barely restrained terror simmering just below the surface of the fussy facade she's holding onto ripple across her face like the swell of a wave before swallowing it back down. By the time the demon has reached her right shoulder, she's smoothed her expression again.

They complete their orbit of her and hum to themselves a moment, seeming to consider her, or maybe the negotiation they've been pushing for.

"You can call me Crowley," they decide, tone coming over a bit queer as they squint at her like they're trying to divine the inside of her skull. "What should I call you?"

She sucks in a harsh breath, surprised at the returned courtesy of not being asked for her true name. She doesn't believe it works in the other direction with demons, the way it does with fae, but it's startlingly polite. Then again, perhaps this is how all demons begin their temptations, by lulling their victims into a false sense of security.

"I… oh," she trails off, mind coming up blank. "I've never chosen a name for myself before," she says apologetically.

"How about 'angel,'" Crowley offers with a purr. "You look positively cherubic under that blood cloak."

"Oh, I wouldn't presume—" she stutters, but Crowley waves her off with a negligent hand.

"If you think of something else you prefer later, tell me. But for now, let's get down to the business at hand."

Crowley crowds in closer again, keeping their hands clasped behind their back but angling in, hinged at the waist, so that some of the forward curls of their long hair get perilously close, twisting and writhing as though caught in an eddy of wind.

Aziraphale stands her ground, eyeing the hair warily. Though it encroaches, it doesn't touch, so she decides to let it be. She supposes the demon is following the letter if not the spirit of her earlier request, and that is likely the best she can hope for.

"The wine is meant to be a gift to Grandmother," she says carefully. "To convince her to take me on as a pupil. I'm afraid she might turn me away if I don't bring her the full bottle." When Crowley pouts at her, she offers, "I do have honey cakes. Quite a lot of them. I don't think she would notice if one goes missing."

Crowley's head sways gently side to side as they regard her keenly. "I do like a good honey cake," they say. "But I like wine better. What about a trade? I can send you down a path that will take you through an orchard of golden apples. Very rare, very crissssp, very ssssweet," they tempt with a little flick of a forked tongue and a wicked grin. "Also very difficult to find if you don't know the way. How about it? The wine for the path to Grandmother's house that will lead you through the golden apple orchard?"

Aziraphale considers. She'd been given a list of Grandmother's favorites and told to choose her offerings with care. The vintage in the basket is good, but Sandalphon owned the last case of Grandmother's favorite, and Aziraphale hadn't been willing to meet his gouging price for a bottle. Apples, though…

"This path… it's not any more dangerous than others you might share with me?" she asks.

Crowley grins at her, obviously delighted at her caution and question. "Not any more dangerous than the main path, but a bit more dangerous than some others I know of."

"How dangerous is dangerous?" she presses.

They bobble their head back and forth, considering. "You know how to use that steel I can smell in your boot?"

She breaks out in a cold sweat. They can smell her dagger on her?

"I… yes," she says breathlessly.

A slow-blooming grin spreads back over their face. "Then you'll probably be fine. So, what will it be? On your merry way? Or a chance to swap your wine for a delectable bunch of apples? I hear Granny loves apples," they say with sing-song lightness.

Aziraphale swallows past her dry throat.

It would be a deal with the devil, but it is a trade up. Anything that might improve her chances is likely worth the risk, at this point. If she ever wants to be allowed back.

"What is my guarantee that if I hand over the wine that the path you describe will lead me true?" she counters.

Crowley cackles. "Oi, are you saying you don't trust me to tell you the truth?"

She presses her mouth into a grim line. "You _are_ a demon. I thought it was your job to try to find a loophole in a deal. Or are all the many, many books and lexica I've read incorrect?"

They lean back with a pleased grin. "No, no, you're right. Demons as a category are terribly untrustworthy. Besides, we've only just met. Practically strangers. How's this: what if you only give me the wine after you get the apples?"

Aziraphale blinks rapidly. "Are you offering to accompany me?"

They hoot a laugh. "Oh, your face! No, no, don't worry, I won't inflict myself on you any longer than necessary. I'll tell you the way and meet you there. I have a few errands to run between now and then anyway."

She feels something wound tight ease a bit. For all Crowley's not done anything outright menacing throughout the entirety of their interaction, she can't help the deep-seated wariness she feels at being in the presence of a demon. Something deep in her hindbrain refuses to be lulled by the pleasantries and charming civility.

"That sounds perfectly acceptable," she says, and then, before she can second guess herself, she releases the grip she's maintained on the neck of the wine bottle throughout the entire conversation and sticks her hand out. "I believe we have a deal."

Crowley looks at her hand for a long moment, eyebrows nearly levitating off their face, before reaching out with their own hand and gently grasping hers. Their palm is dry and slightly cooler than a human's. Though she'd seen what looked like human skin when they'd reached out, she can feel the finely textured silkiness of scales under her fingers. Crowley's talons rest almost delicately against the thin skin on the back of her hand, so lightly they almost tickle. It's more a hand clasp than a true shake, but Aziraphale doesn't intend to quibble over it.

"Pleasure doing business with you, angel," Crowley drawls, though they seem distracted still by their clasped hands. They tilt them this way and that, seemingly fascinated by the contrast between Aziraphale's soft, sturdy fingers and their own spindly, talon-tipped ones. "Interesting custom, this," they remark, finally. "What's it for? Other than to share germs..."

"It's modified from an older custom," she explains, hoping her palms don't begin to sweat again before the demon relinquishes their hold. "It's meant to demonstrate that neither of us has any hidden weapons up our sleeves."

"Like that dagger in your boot?" Crowley counters, slightly incredulous. "Or how about my bloody great claws? Could mangle you by accident if I wasn't taking care," they observe, sounding almost indignant.

Aziraphale shakes her head helplessly. "It's a display of trust, at its core. I'm trusting you to take care with your, er, nails, and you're trusting me not to wallop you over the head with this heavy basket."

Crowley pulls a face that eloquently conveys "fair enough" and releases her hand.

"All right, angel. Let's get you on your way to Grandmother's house," they say with a grin full of knives.


	2. Took the one less traveled by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter:
> 
>   * Very mild body horror. I don't think it's too bad, just a little unsettling, which is why it doesn't have a proper tag.
>   * References to emotional/psychological abuse, though nothing between Aziraphale and Crowley.
> 

> 
> I've got a more spoiler-y warnings in the end notes if you have any concerns. Take care of yourselves!

The path to the apple orchard is dim and choked with leaf litter and encroaching undergrowth. The trees on either side are gnarled with stooped branches creating a low canopy that both blocks out all but the gloomiest impression of sunlight and makes the walk down the narrow aisle between the trunks feel claustrophobic.

Aziraphale keeps her eyes fixed firmly on what passes for a horizon in the cramped woods. To her left, somewhere beyond the trees, is the sound of a woman sobbing quietly. She ignores it. When the sobbing increases in intensity, even begins to sound like her neighbor who went into the wood to see Grandmother several years ago and never came back, Aziraphale grits her teeth and starts humming a hymn under her breath to drown it out.

" _There are plenty of places in the wood where it's all right to stray off the path_ ," Crowley had warned. " _But this path isn't one of them. Don't allow yourself to be drawn away. Any cries you hear or lights you see will be an illusion._ "

She'd believed him, but the difference between a warning and first-hand experience is sobering in intensity. She feels like every hair on her head is standing at attention, short curls even more surprised looking than usual. Her head and neck feel vulnerable without the cloak obscuring them. The red riding hood is currently rolled up and tucked between the mouth of the basket and the handle.

" _Take that damn thing off_ ," Crowley had groused. " _Bloody hell, you might as well have a sign pinned to your forehead that says 'eat me.'_ " Since that was what she suspected anyway, Aziraphale had grudgingly followed the advice. But while there isn't a breeze in this part of the wood, there's a persistent chill that's seeping through even her sweater and wool trousers, and she's missing the extra layer.

The sobbing stops, finally, but now there's a light bobbing between the trees a ways ahead and to the right. Aziraphale tracks it warily without changing the steady, ground-eating pace she's settled into. It could be a will o' the wisp, or it could be something more grievously corporeal.

She readjusts her grip on the hilt of her dagger. The sheath has been relocated from her boot to her belt. Another piece of advice from the demon. " _What good is it doing you down there? You think danger is going to wait for you to bend down and get it out?_ "

She'd nearly snapped at them then, feeling wrongfooted and foolish for letting herself be sent off like a lamb to the slaughter. The dagger was in her boot because she wasn't meant to have it, and she hadn't wanted it noticed when she was led out of the village. But none of that was Crowley's fault, so she'd restrained herself to an annoyed glare and disapproving, jerky movements as she'd rearranged herself.

" _At least your clothes are sensible_ ," the demon had conceded. " _And by 'sensible' I mean you look like_ you're _a grandmother_." For that, she'd given them a tart, " _At least I'm not running around the forest in a sentient black sackcloth._ " Crowley had been shocked silent for a long moment before they unsuccessfully hid a grin behind a lot of affronted-sounding consonants. The skirt of their robes had practically undulated.

Aziraphale is still watching the light, which does appear to be getting closer, when a voice croaks, "Who's this, trespassing in our wood?" from the opposite side of the path.

She jerks to a stop and resists pulling out the dagger. Not until provoked, she reminds herself, lest she unintentionally create provocation.

Popping up silently and unexpectedly to catch travelers unaware must be a shared trait amongst demons, she thinks. For the creature lurking half hidden behind a nearby tree is unquestionably another demon. A fat toad squats on their balding head with eyes just as black and wet as their master's. Warts and bumpy patches of skin creep down the side of the demon's face before disappearing beneath a lumpy beige robe that makes Crowley's outfit look meticulously tailored by comparison. Sickly pale fingers spread over the trunk of the tree, making the webbing between them stretch grotesquely, as the demon steps around to stand beside the tree.

"Trespassers make a fine meal," observes another voice, to her right, and she turns to see another demon flanking her, this one dark where the other was pale, with a colorful, bug-eyed lizard perched on their head. "Maybe we should eat her."

"Would serve her right," the first one agrees with a rasping cough of a laugh.

"I am merely passing through," she says, pretending a calm she doesn't feel and groping for a placating smile. Trying to make the move seem casual instead of panicked, she reaches up and brushes the serpent sigil brooch affixed over her heart with trembling fingers.

" _Are there others like you in the wood?_ " she'd asked after Crowley had described the path to the orchard to her. Crowley had stared at her without comprehension before they'd thrown their head back and groaned.

" _Are there other demons in the wood?_ " they'd rephrased. " _Yes, there are. And there's a couple I have the misfortune of knowing who've been lurking the past few weeks near the way I'm sending you. Fuck,_ " they'd said emphatically.

" _Well_ ," she'd replied, shaken by the amount of loathing and worry in the demon's eyes, " _perhaps there is a different path I could take to the orchard? You won't get your wine if I never arrive, after all._ "

" _Yeah, yes, I know_ ," Crowley had griped and then shuffled disconcertingly close again. " _All right, here's how we're going to keep you in one piece,_ " they'd said, the ends of their hair and hem of their robes in an absolute tizzy. And so, Aziraphale had removed her cloak and moved her dagger and nodded seriously at each warning and instruction given.

Finally, Crowley had flattened their mouth into a thin line and appraised her through narrowed eyes. " _One last thing_ ," they'd said, sounding reluctant, and had reached up to the serpent tattoo on the right side of their face. They worried the point of a claw underneath the top edge of the design and peeled the ink of the tattoo from their skin like a strip of moistened wallpaper. Aziraphale hadn't been able to suppress a horrified shriek at the sight, though Crowley had just made a mocking face at her. " _Calm down, s'not like it hurts,_ " they'd grumbled. With a sharp flick of their wrist, the limp black ink had solidified into a bright silver brooch.

" _May I_?" Crowley had asked, gesturing to her chest, and Aziraphale had been too dumbfounded to do more than nod weakly. When the demon had shuffled a half step closer, breath warm on her face, to pin the brooch with a few deft flourishes of their talons, Aziraphale had frozen in place. A few bolder strands of the demon's hair had tossed in an invisible breeze and landed softly on her shoulders. A spicy, slightly earthy scent crept into her nose, with a smell like the heat of a campfire close behind. " _This will warn off any other demons you might encounter,_ " Crowley had assured her. " _I'll want it back, so don't lose it._ "

She'd pushed down the awkward awareness of how very thoroughly this relative stranger was invading her space and managed a severe look. " _Is this the demonic equivalent of licking your food so no one else will eat it?_ "

Crowley's grin was terrifyingly pointy this close, but she could also see the laugh lines etched beside their eyes and in the creases between their mouth and nose, which somehow balanced things out.

" _I really want that wine_ ," Crowley had drawled.

Looking back and forth between the two demons flanking her on the path, she can't see any evidence that even if they make a habit of smiling it has ever reached their eyes.

"I'm on my way to meet someone," she tries, lightly tapping the brooch to draw attention to it. The silver is skin warm beneath her fingers, and she thinks she feels the little stylized head at the end curve up to meet her fingertip.

The one on the right squints at her and tsks. "The serpent's called dibs."

"What?" the other screeches and leans in to peer nearsightedly at her chest. "That flash bastard. I keep telling you we should run them out of that end of the wood. They keep snatching up the best ones. Look at her! She's practically basting in misery and self-doubt."

"We'll get the jump on them one of these days," the other one says firmly. They smile at her nastily. "Have you seen the serpent's true form yet, love?"

She clenches the dagger hilt hard enough to bruise her palm and stubbornly remains mute. They seem ready to give her up, however reluctantly, and she has no desire to prolong the encounter, even if the phrase "true form" is making her neck muscles lock up with ruthlessly suppressed anxiety.

"They may put on a pretty face, but swallow you whole they will," the one on the left agrees with a wet chortle. Their compatriot picks up the laugh half an octave lower, which just inspires them to ramp the chortle up to a shrieking guffaw. The other one adds a rumbling overtone to their laugh and stares at her fixedly with glowing orange eyes. The pale one is croaking in three tones now. Combined, the laughs are so resonant and awful that she can feel them pressing in on her from either side, seeking to crush her like a bug. The sound fills her head, reverberating until her muscles lock up. Orange eyes hold her fast, as hypnotic as a still flame in a dark room.

There's a sharp pain in her fingertip, and she breaks the demon's gaze to look down at the brooch in confusion. The serpent's head is perfectly flat and all innocuous rounded edges. Nevertheless there are twin red pin pricks on the tip of the finger she'd left absently pressed against it.

She narrows her eyes but decides not to look gift serpent brooches in the mouths they most certainly are not supposed to have.

Now that she isn't looking at either of the demons, the laughter is just noise.

She hurries on her way, walking briskly to put distance between them.

The laughter follows her far longer than it should.

.

.

.

She knows she's close when she rounds a bend in the path and is nearly blinded by an eye-wateringly golden glow of light at the end of the shadowed tunnel of tree trunks. The orchard, Crowley had said, was a little spot of paradise within the woods. Aziraphale supposes that for such a gloomy place that means sunlight.

By the time she reaches the edge of the orchard, her eyes have adjusted enough that she's able to tell even before stepping into the clearing that it's empty of demons. Crowley has a lanky build, but she doubts even they could successfully hide behind one of the slender, pale tree trunks.

A little annoyed, but not overly surprised, Aziraphale takes a few cautious steps out from the dark cover of the larger wood and cranes her neck to get a full view of the area.

The air is heavy with the honey scent of ripe fruit and the friendly drone of bees. In blatant defiance of nature, the trees exist in a hodgepodge of seasonal states: a handful are covered in flourishing spring blossoms, some are laden with shining golden fruit, yet others are alight with leaves dyed autumn orange and yellow, and a few are bare-branched. She wanders up to the nearest one with apples and peers at them closely. They have an unnatural sheen to the skin, reflecting light like satin.

"Pretty, aren't they?" Crowley says from just behind her left shoulder, and Aziraphale shrieks and swings the basket at them in knee-jerk terror.

Crowley yelps and jumps back, the basket only barely grazing their side.

"You!" Aziraphale fumes, fumbling with the basket as it finishes its disrupted arc to keep it from pulling her off balance. "If one more demon sneaks up on me…" she declares, but lacking a clear plan for what it would be that she'd do, apart from doing it with extreme prejudice, she subsides and lets her glare speak for her.

Crowley holds up their hands and grins cautiously at her. "Ahhh, I take it you did end up running into, erk, Hastur and Ligur?"

"Are they the ones with a toad and, oh, some strange-looking lizard on their heads?" she demands, hugging the basket back close to her chest and making a fuss over checking the contents to give her shaking hands something to do.

"Hastur's the toad, and Ligur's the chameleon—the lizard thing—yeah," Crowley supplies, eyeing her warily. "They give you any trouble?"

"Well! They were certainly rude, and I think Ligur tried to hypnotize or bespell me, but the brooch did its work well." Reminded of its presence, she reaches up to unpin it, but leaves off when Crowley slithers up close and peers intently at her face.

Startled, she throws up her hand to ward them away. Her fingers just barely graze against their chest, and Crowley freezes. Aziraphale stares at her hand in horror. It hadn't been her intention to touch them, or to object so obviously.

"Please," she stammers, unable to tear her eyes from where her fingers are starting to tremble against the fabric of the demon's robes. The contact isn't even firm enough to feel their body heat beneath, because Crowley had stopped so instantly and utterly, but she swears her fingertips are burning.

"Sorry," Crowley says after a long moment, voice stilted. "I was checking to see if Ligur managed to hook a curse on you, but… Is it the closeness, or the suddenness? Both?"

She takes a shaky breath. "The suddenness, mostly. But also the… the looming."

"So I should quit it with the popping out, and the looming, and especially the popping-out-looming," Crowley repeats back, like they're writing a checklist. They straighten up a fraction so they're not curled over her.

Aziraphale dares to look up then, meeting their gaze. Crowley's staring back at her, eyes roaming over her face and the faintest furrow to their brow. They look like they're trying to understand. They look, unaccountably, like they care enough to try to understand.

With a brief nod, she pulls her hand back. After another, sturdier nod, she digs under the cloak into the basket and extracts the bottle of wine.

"Here," she says, holding it out. "As promised."

Crowley stares at her a moment longer before looking down and brightening. "Oh, I recognize this! A couple came through about a year ago. Bartered me for a bit of advice on the best path to take to get to the other side of the wood. S'good stuff."

They sit down right where they are and poke a talon into the center of the cork.

Aziraphale feels a wave of lightheadedness wash over her. "A couple…? Did you meet Adam and Eve?" she demands.

Crowley looks up, surprised. "Yeah, I think those were their names." Then, looking indignant, "Well, what were they going to do with wine anyway? With her pregnant and him needing to keep his wits about him. Was practically doing them a favor, trading for wine."

Aziraphale shakes her head in disbelief, staring down at this ridiculous creature using their powers to turn their talon into a corkscrew and miracle her up protective brooches and charm people into trading safe passage for a drink. She'd been wondering, after her encounter with the other demons, how anyone was meant to make the journey safely when they were sent draped in a target and without either steel or knowledge to defend them. She's beginning to suspect...

Oh, it could be a ruse, she supposes. Perhaps Crowley intentionally sent her down a dangerous path, and if she'd stayed true to the main way she would have arrived at Grandmother's already. But she doesn't think so.

For one, it seems like a lot of trouble just to secure a bottle of wine.

For another, while Crowley does appear to relish in playing up their role as a demon, they've been surprisingly attentive to, and mindful of, direct requests and boundaries once set. She'd given up years ago asking Gabriel not to clap her shoulder or Sandalphon and Michael not to loom or Uriel to stop appearing silently at her back without announcing themselves.

With a stifled sigh, she sits down across from Crowley. When she hadn't scolded the demon, they'd turned back to their task, and are now flapping their arms as they try to work the cork out of the bottle with their talon. They glance up briefly when she sits, shooting her a forbidding look that dares her to comment. She keeps her counsel and instead liberates a honey cake.

Crowley perks up at the sight. With a final wriggle and pointed snarl at the bottle, the cork pops free, and Crowley barks a triumphant "ha!" With a snap of their fingers, two goblets appear on the ground between them. Crowley pours a generous amount of wine in both.

"Oh!" Aziraphale says in surprise when Crowley trades her a goblet for the honey cake.

"You think I'd sit here and drink in front of you without offering a glass?" Crowley asks, sounding far more affronted than the crinkling smile lines around their eyes suggests is credible. "I'm a demon, not a monster."

Aziraphale makes her answering hum conspicuously skeptical and pretends to be engrossed in the first sip of wine when Crowley scoffs at her.

The demon tips their head back, opens their mouth wide enough to make Aziraphale wince, and tosses the whole honey cake back. It makes a noticeable bulge when Crowley swallows it down.

"Mm, that is…" Crowley murmurs with a pleased expression before they frown consideringly. "Hold on, these are the same cakes Adam and Eve had too." They cast a speculative look Aziraphale's way.

Aziraphale blushes and takes another sip of wine. "I made them a basket," she finally mutters.

"Eh? What was that?"

"I made Adam and Eve a basket," she says again, far too loudly. "It was cold and she was expecting and they weren't letting them take anything but the clothes on their backs, and barely even that. Said they had already stolen too much. But they were… they were my neighbors, and they were kind to me, and so I packed them a basket and hid it behind a tree at the edge of the wood and when they were leaving I whispered where it was in Eve's ear."

Crowley's looking at her with an indescribable expression. If she had to guess, they looked like they didn't know if they wanted to laugh or go off to stomp the ground in an unholy fit.

She shrugs and gulps down another mouthful of wine. It really is quite good. Much better than what Sandalphon is hoarding. If she's being completely honest with herself, it's quite a lot nicer to share it with a demon than to think of handing it over to Grandmother.

When the silence stretches uncomfortably long, she fidgets with the stem of the goblet and blurts out. "Do you know, I think that was the last straw for them? The village leaders, I mean. I think they suspected what I'd done, but they couldn't prove it. Gabriel even asked me once, 'You didn't give them anything, did you?' because they'd made a proclamation about it, that no one was to give them succor because of what they'd done. And I said, 'Of course not,' because I never did, you see? I put a basket in the wood and mentioned it to a friend, that's all. But the next time I got an official reprimand, I wasn't surprised when they told me I needed to visit Grandmother."

Crowley hums thoughtfully, spinning their goblet through long fingers. "And what had they done that was so awful?"

"Adam and Eve?" Aziraphale asks, surprised. At Crowley's nod, she sighs. "They read from the Book. Or, Eve did, I think. It's where they keep a ledger of every person's infractions and punishments. You can petition to see your own, though sometimes they won't allow it. You see, they also record details about who reported you and their statements, and they want to protect their privacy."

Crowley's face screws up. "So what happens if someone fibs about you just to get you in trouble? Do you get a trial? A chance to argue your side? And whatever happened to mediation, eh?"

"Oh, no, the village leaders handle it all. They do all of the investigation and decision making and privately take care of remediation, when necessary. And it's not _all_ the time, of course—plenty of people are more than willing to air their grievances publicly. This is just when someone doesn't want to come forward."

"Or when the leaders want to fabricate a complaint, you mean," Crowley drawls, leaning back heavily on an elbow in the grass.

Aziraphale feels a flash of heat and then bitter cold wash over her. "No…" she says firmly, but her stomach clenches. "They wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't they?" Crowley asks, a little too knowingly. "I never got the full story—obviously—but I overheard Eve complaining to Adam that they'd never find out 'the truth.' She sounded pretty upset about it. Can't help thinking if she was banished for reading some forbidden naughty list, it might be because there was some chicanery going on, hmm?"

The clench in her gut intensifies, and Aziraphale shakily puts the goblet down on the grass beside her, the scent suddenly nauseating.

Crowley must read something of her distress in her face, because they set aside their goblet as well and sit back up. "Well, that struck a nerve," they observe ruefully. "Look, you don't have to tell me—"

"They were threatening to send Eve to Grandmother," Aziraphale blurts out. "She received a note. I heard them fighting about it one night, when I was in the back garden. Eve was expecting already, and she wanted to just leave. Adam thought it was too risky, and if they just obeyed and kept their heads down it would all smooth over eventually."

Aziraphale looks up into the boughs of the tree, watching the sunlight wink at her through the leaves and glint off the lustrous skin of the apples. It's an uncomplicatedly beautiful sight in the heart of a place so grim.

When she's silent for too long, Crowley murmurs, "I take it Eve didn't agree?"

Aziraphale nods mutely, watching the leaves twinkle in the sunlight and wind. "She claimed most of the 'infractions' she was accused of were made up, that the leaders were colluding with people who didn't like her personally to either silence her or drive her away. She is very opinionated, you see, and not shy about speaking her mind. Some don't like that."

"Hmm, a certain sort tends not to, yeah. So she decided to get herself some proof?" Crowley guesses, slowly collapsing forward on to their elbows, stretching their long legs out behind them. They fold their arms and rest their chin on them, red hair spilling limply around them.

Aziraphale swallows heavily and fiddles with a worn spot on the knee of her trousers that will need patching soon. "Yes. And she was caught. When they said Eve was to be exiled, Adam said if she was going, then so was he. You'd have thought the entire leadership council had sucked on the same lemon when he told them, loudly, at the reading of the judgment."

Crowley snickers at that, and Aziraphale feels a reluctant but genuine smile tug her mouth in kind.

"They were arranged, you see. Many marriages are, in the village. Adam is—was—considered very level-headed, a steadying influence. I think when they arranged their marriage, they hoped Adam might… oh, I don't know what they thought, honestly. But in any event, they obviously didn't expect Adam to choose his wife over the village. Silly of them. Everyone could see how much they'd grown to love each other."

Crowley hums speculatively. "Sounds to me like they were trying to oust her so they'd have an excuse to set him up with someone more suitable, eh? What do you think?"

Aziraphale shifts awkwardly. There's much about marriage she doesn't know. She's never been considered for match-making, and nothing more organic has ever sprung up.

"Best not to speculate," she settles on.

The longer she sees the demon stretched out, the more her folded-up joints ache in jealousy. With a wriggle, she stretches her own legs out and crosses them at the ankle. The tree trunk makes a fine backrest, and she forces herself to relax against it, folding her hands primly over the soft curve of her belly.

Crowley glances over at where her feet are now resting only a hand's span from their elbow and smirks. She realizes, belatedly, that the whole production of lying down must have been a temptation, and she'd fallen for it.

"Yes, well done," she says with an eye roll. "You're terribly wily."

"You really think so?" they demur as they prop their chin on their fist at an obnoxious angle.

She gives them an unimpressed look and picks her goblet back up again. Sharing the story with someone else hasn't lessened the ache of it, but it has made it feel more bearable.

"Hey, angel," Crowley says after a peaceful stretch of silence. When she looks at them with a questioning expression, they lock eyes with her intently. "You know you don't have to do this, right? Go to Grandmother's, I mean. You could just… keep walking—straight out the other side of the wood. I could send you down the same path I sent Adam and Eve, if you like. There's a town not too far from where that path spits you out. She was far enough along, I'll bet they'll have settled there, at least until the baby isn't so little. Or babies." Their face screws up. "I think it was twins I sensed in there."

Aziraphale gapes at him. "Leave?" she splutters. "Oh! I… but my whole life is in the village. My friends, my cottage, my _books_."

Crowley nods along like they're trying to sympathize. "Yeah, sure, but… you realize how fucked up your town's whole power structure sounds, right? And this is coming from a demon."

"Yes, a demon," she counters, a little meanly, but the suggestion is so outrageous it has her heart bouncing behind her ribs like a panicked bird. "It is a perfectly lovely place to live, I'll have you know—so long as you follow the rules. Everyone takes care of each other. No one has to worry about going hungry or finding someone to watch the children for a few hours or, or get help if they're sick or injured. And there's a wonderful library and a crafts guild and scholars and artists come from all over to visit. I'm apprenticed to the head librarian. I'm to take over when she retires."

Crowley scoffs. "There's a whole world of villages—towns and cities, even, if you're feeling ambitious—beyond the wood. Places where people wouldn't try to convince you you're 'too much.' Where you could work in a library without being sent off to some harridan for a light spot of torture for daring to enjoy yourself a little now and again."

"Torture?" Aziraphale echoes through lips gone numb. It isn't as if she didn't already suspect, but to hear it said so plainly…

Crowley winces. "Ehhhh, well, I mean, it's not like I've ever seen firsthand, but I've heard some things and, uh, seen the differences of a few people before and after." They scratch their jaw uneasily with nervous swipes of their talon. "If it helps, I think it's mostly… psychological. Emotional? Ah, yeah, now I'm saying it out loud, that really isn't very reassuring, is it?"

"It is not, no," Aziraphale says faintly.

"Hey, hey, angel," Crowley says softly, awkwardly dragging themselves forward on their elbows until their head is even with her knees. Though no laws of motion Aziraphale can credit, a whole drape of red curls ends up resting comfortingly across her shins. "Come on, let me tempt you just a bit more. Take the path out of the wood. Go find those crazy love birds and see how they're doing. I'll bet they'd put up an old neighbor for a while in exchange for a bit of childcare."

They raise their eyebrows beseechingly. When she starts to shake her head, feeling her own face twisting up in unacknowledged misery she's trying desperately to keep repressed, they up the ante by sticking their lower lip out in a pout.

"No, Crowley, stop it," she says, turning her face away and wrapping her arms around herself. "I can't just… leave. There are people there who depend on me. I have responsibilities. And it's not like they don't have a point, about me. I do eat more than I should and indulge too often in frivolities and get selfish about time to myself and don't appreciate what I have—what we all have there, really. No place is perfect, but there are places that could be so much worse. I know what's expected of me here. I just need to be better about following the rules, that's all. And as much as I loved Adam and Eve, and I miss them, they knew the rules too, and they still broke them."

Crowley sighs long and quiet through their nose.

"Well, worth a shot," they say glibly and slowly twist to lay flat on their back beside her. Unaccountably, there's still quite a lot of red curls draped over her lower legs when they've resettled. Aziraphale is mildly alarmed that she's beginning to find the persistent not-touch charming.

"Crowley, your hair," she says on a sigh.

They tip their head back to look at her in confusion and then back down. Red flushes their face briefly, and they jerk their head roughly to pull the curls off. "Sorry, didn't realize…" they mumble. "This form isn't really, you know, _me_. Or, well, it's not _not_ me. But it's the more palatable—look, there's also a whole…" They wave a hand up vaguely in the air and lose the end of the sentence to a garbled string of vowels. "Anyway, sometimes my, er, piloting skills, I guess it the best way to think of it, aren't always, um—"

"Crowley," she cuts in, before the embarrassment, both first and secondhand, does them both in. "It's… I don't mind," she says, surprising them both. "Please just keep your conduct, of all of your… everything... that of a, er, a gentledemon."

The demon in question blinks up at her owlishly, mouth falling open for a moment before snapping it shut with a click. "Gentledemon," they parrot on a choked breath, "got it."

Hearing it back, Aziraphale is struck with the absurdity anew and a giggle escapes before she can slap her hand over her mouth. But it's too late, because Crowley catches it and starts snickering. Within moments, they're both doubled over, hooting with laughter.

When they calm down, Crowley rolls back up to sitting, this time beside her, a polite two inches between their shoulders—because they're a gentledemon, they insist solemnly. A demonic snap has both their goblets back in hand. Crowley asks about her favorite books while they finish the bottle. They're surprisingly well read, for an infernal minion of the underworld. It's a sentiment she shares only after they insult one of her favorite authors. Crowley is far too delighted by the setdown, in her opinion.

Crowley doesn't raise the topic of leaving again. When Aziraphale finally pushes to her feet to pick several apples and continue on her way, they stay sitting on the ground, watching her silently.

"Goodbye, Crowley," she says when she has the basket settled back on her arm to her satisfaction. A thought occurs to her, and her hand flies up to touch the serpent brooch still pinned to her shirt. "Oh, you'll want this back, of course," she says.

"Keep it," Crowley says, sharp and a little stern. "If I need it back, I'll find you."

Aziraphale's mouth rounds on a surprised O. After a moment, she collects herself enough to say, "Well, I would say thank you, but that was rather ominous of you, my dear."

A corner of Crowley's mouth quirks up at that. "Just doing my job, angel. Go on, then. To Grandmother's house you go."

She nods and leaves them there, sitting under the apple tree and watching her with bright yellow serpent's eyes as she walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spoilery content warnings:**
> 
>   * Very mild body horror: Crowley via demon magic peels the ink of his tattoo off his face like you might a sticker. It doesn't hurt, but it's definitely weird, and Aziraphale is a little freaked out by how it looks.
>   * References to emotional/psychological abuse: tl;dr we're really leaning into the undercurrents of the tv show that Heaven is like a cult. Aziraphale discusses what life is like in her village, and reveals it's a very controlling environment, including things like arranged marriages, leaders consistently violating personal boundaries, and the leaders consolidating a lot of power over their "justice" system, with implications that the system is rigged to be another avenue of control. This includes sending people with enough reprimands to Grandmother for "correction"; Crowley confirms that from what they've gathered, Grandmother emotionally and psychologically tortures those sent to her to get them to fall in line with village rules and expectations.
> 



	3. The better to see you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter:
> 
>   * (more) references to emotional/psychological abuse
>   * an offer of consensual psychological injury--it's complicated, so def avail yourselves of spoilery end notes if you need more before wading in
>   * fairy tale levels of horror
>   * minor character deaths
>   * non-graphic descriptions of blood and injury
> 

> 
> More spoilery descriptions of the warning in end notes. Take care of yourselves!

Grandmother's house sits at the center of a wide, ruthlessly groomed clearing, without a windswept leaf or twig marring the inch-high sweep of cultivated grass. Perfectly squared off, pristinely white stones march in a straight line from the end of the path to the front door, which is framed by twin pots of monkshood. The whitewashed walls gleam in the afternoon sunlight.

Aziraphale stands in the shadow of the trees at the edge of the wood and stares at it.

Her basket is heavy with honey cakes and ripe, golden apples. The red riding hood once again hangs over her shoulders. All that remains is to walk the final path and put herself at Grandmother's mercy.

She swallows down nausea and glances away from the blinding light reflecting from the white walls. When her gaze falls to the ground, she sees that the undergrowth has been sheared at the tree line to prevent it from encroaching on the lawn. The still-fresh piths of the docked branches glow like tiny stars where the sunlight picks at them in the dark underbrush.

"Come on, Aziraphale," she whispers to herself, "buck up."

With a final fortifying breath and straightening of her spine, Aziraphale steps into the clearing and onto the first stone. They're set just far enough apart from one another that she's forced to overextend her stride or risk falling short of the next step. Managing her walk keeps her occupied enough that she doesn't notice the door is ajar until she reaches the porch.

It isn't gaping open or halfway latched. Either of which might suggest it's due to either intention or mistake that the door isn't fully closed. Instead, the latch rests gently against the outer edge of the strike plate like a warning.

A chill flushes through Aziraphale's chest and down her back.

Perhaps, this is part of the test, she reasons.

Her throat clicks dryly as she swallows and brings her fist up to knock. The door sways with the slight force but doesn't open further, pinned in place by its own weight and inertia.

A wavering call sounds inside, indistinct.

When a full minute crawls by without anyone appearing at the door, Aziraphale realizes it was probably intended as an invitation. She pushes the door open and steps up to the threshold.

The front room is dark, but she can make out simple, austere furniture and a conspicuous lack of bric-a-brac that might hint at the personality of the woman within. She wonders if Grandmother clears it away when she's expecting a petitioner, or if this is simply how she lives.

"Hello? Grandmother?" she calls, and her voice bounces off the nearly bare walls.

"Here," the same wavering voice calls from a door on the back wall. It sounds… frail, Aziraphale thinks.

It occurs to her, then, that perhaps Grandmother hadn't closed her door or come to greet her because she's either ill or injured. With the realization, her apprehension is nearly swamped by worry.

"It's Aziraphale Fell, from Silverton," she calls, raising her voice slightly to make sure she can be heard. "Are you quite all right? I was told you would be expecting me today."

"Aziraphale!" The voice stretches the syllables out in what almost sounds like delight. "Come here, duckie. Grandmother isn't in any fit state to come greet you."

"Oh! Oh, dear, of course!" Aziraphale cries, stepping inside immediately and pushing the door until she hears the latch slide into place. "Shall I bring something back? Some tea? I have honey cakes and apples, but if there's something you'd like me to fetch from the cupboard?"

"No, no," the voice demurs. "Just bring your sssweet self." The voice cuts off abruptly with what sounds like coughing and low muttering.

Aziraphale frowns but does as she's bid.

When she opens the door, the room is also dark, the only window's curtains drawn. She can make out enough shapes, however, to realize this must be Grandmother's bedroom. The woman herself is sitting in the middle of a wide bed, half-reclined on pillows and with several quilts and blankets tucked up to her chin.

"Grandmother?" she hazards.

"Hmm, what brings you here, duckie?" Grandmother asks, voice creaking with age and what Aziraphale assumes must be either pain or illness.

"I've…" she says and frowns again under the protection of the shadows. It seems a little cruel, to make her spell it out. "I've come for my correction."

"Oh? And what is it that needs correcting?"

Aziraphale opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. After a befuddled moment, she ventures, "Didn't Gabriel or Michael or one of the others send you a list? Or, a report?"

"I want to hear it from you," Grandmother insists, voice firming up.

"Well!" Aziraphale exclaims, already feeling her face flush with humiliation. Where to begin. "I care too much about my clothes," she offers.

"Is that a problem?" Grandmother asks in surprise. "I've been to the village, dearie, and I've seen Gabriel cuts a natty figure in his fine suits."

"I suppose… but, I take more care with my clothes than I do keeping my body fit and trim."

"You do look quite soft," Grandmother agrees warmly. "Why should that need correcting? There are many in the village more round than trim—that Sandalphon, for one. Is that not simply a sign the village is prosperous? No one is going hungry?"

Flummoxed, but not inclined to argue the point, Aziraphale continues down the mental list dictated to her over the years. "I don't always speak humbly or kindly."

"Neither does Uriel. Catty thing, she is."

Aziraphale shakes her head, not in disagreement but in disbelief. She hadn't been sure what to expect from her first meeting with Grandmother, but having all her confessions batted aside so casually hadn't even been in the realm of possibilities.

"I ask too many questions," she insists, voice pitching more stridently than she means to. "Especially of the leaders. I always have to know why. Or ask them to clarify something that doesn't make sense to me. I don't just accept my instructions like I should."

Grandmother wheezes a laugh like dry leaves scraping over bark. "I've heard Michael question Gabriel to his smug face and he didn't even blink."

Aziraphale has moved beyond befuddled and landed somewhere in the territory of outrage. Is this a test? Is she meant to hold tight to her faults and confessions? Or reject that she should ever expect to be granted the same leeway as the leaders? After all, they have such responsibilities and stress upon them that they must deserve greater clemency.

"Do you know? I've seen many people come and go from this cottage over the years," Grandmother says before Aziraphale can decide how to feel. "They've been all shapes and sizes and genders and colors and dispositions, but do you know what they've all had in common?"

Aziraphale shakes her head mutely. There's something dangerous lurking under Grandmother's creaking, conversational tone.

"They had all been assigned a role by your village, and none of them fit it. No matter how hard they tried to please, or what good deeds they did, it was never enough because they couldn't or wouldn't cut themselves down to size."

The words press against her chest until they're compressing her lungs, her heart, and it becomes difficult to breathe. Her pulse jumps as nervous energy begins radiating up the back of her neck, down over her shoulders. She gasps with the effort it takes not to simply turn around and _run_.

"Oh, Aziraphale," Grandmother sighs, sounding like she's taken a wound herself. "I hate to ask it of you, but I think it bears asking: If they hadn't sent you, would you have wanted to come anyway? Have you swallowed their poison so thoroughly that you believe you need to be corrected? Worked over until you're malleable enough to be shaped into someone other than what you are? All for a morsel of security? Because that's all it would be. Never acceptance."

Aziraphale is trembling now, wrapping her arms tight around herself to hold in the panic and flinch away from the tenderness in Grandmother's rasping voice.

"Because I could do it, if you truly wanted. I could lay hands on you and erase you of all the things they've told you are sins."

She closes her eyes against the dim room and the dark silhouette propped up in the bed offering to hurt her like it would be a reluctantly given gift. What can she possibly say to any of this? What is the point of this awful charade? Unless this is merely the opening moves of whatever game Grandmother intends to play with her. Make Aziraphale beg her for it, as though it was ever her idea to begin with.

"Or…" Grandmother says, lilting and suggestive.

She waits, and Aziraphale reluctantly opens her eyes again. Let's Grandmother know she's still listening as she should.

"There is another option," Grandmother suggests, voice honey sweet and crackling. "You could lay aside the illusion of security and go beyond the wood. Find another village and a new life where you don't have to compromise who you are. I could help you with that too, were that your choice."

"Choice?" Aziraphale chokes out in disbelief. Because, against all odds, it does sound like a choice, and that is too bizarre to be borne. "Who are you? What is this? I cannot believe you are Grandmother."

There's a long silence from the bed before the sound of someone blowing air forcefully through their lips sounds and then a snap. A modest oil lamp on the bedside lamp flickers to life, and warm light spills through the room. The figure in the bed is illuminated, leaning back against the pillows dressed in a pale nightgown with most of their hair stuffed into a severe nightcap.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaims, and then more furiously, " _Crowley_."

"Yeah, you rumbled me," Crowley says, sounding a lot more like their normal self.

Aziraphale stomps closer to the bed, all her anxiety and shame instantly converted to high dudgeon. "You absolute beast, what are you doing here? Why are you pretending to be— _where is Grandmother_?" Aziraphale demands before pausing as a terrible thought occurs to her. "Wait a moment, _are_ you Grandmother? Has this whole thing been some sort of test?"

Crowley's mouth drops open in affront. "What? No!"

"So where is Grandmother, then, you foul fiend?" Aziraphale demands, fighting the overwhelming urge to stamp her foot. The vexing serpent demon is absolutely maddening to talk to.

A flash of guilt ripples across Crowley's face before they set their chin stubbornly. "Look, I took a shortcut after you left the orchard to get here first. You're the third person they've sent in as many years, and it's _ridiculous_. I'm not about to let some malicious human set up shop in my wood and start making _Hastur_ and _Ligur_ look like soft touches. We demons have a reputation to maintain, don't we? So I came here and very politely suggested she pack up and fuck off... or I'd eat her."

Aziraphale balls her hands into fists at her sides. Crowley stares up at her mulishly, yellow eyes glinting in the lamplight.

"Oh, I suppose that went over tremendously."

"Well, _no_ ," Crowley says with a dramatic roll of their eyes. "We had a bit of a scuffle, and I kept telling her to just _leave_ already and we'd call it square, but…" They shrug, eyes skittering away.

Oh, Aziraphale thinks, eyes flitting down Crowley's front. For the first time, it occurs to her that all the lumpy blankets and quilts might not be to stave off a chill but to obscure their form.

"You _ate_ her?" she shrieks, stumbling back.

Crowley throws their hands up in the air in exasperation and then wrestles with the layers of bedding until they can swing their legs over the end and push to their feet. The nightgown stretches over the grotesque roundness of their belly, and Aziraphale is reminded viscerally that Crowley is a serpent demon.

"It was self defense by the end of it," Crowley grumbles and reaches up to tug the nightcap roughly from their head. Red hair spills out, unnaturally slithering and perfect as it resumes its normal drape over their shoulders and chest.

Aziraphale scoffs at the sentiment, and Crowley glares at her.

"It was!" they insist and yank at the neckline of the nightgown to reveal a scorch mark on their chest in the partial shape of a cross. When they lift the hem of the gown, their pale legs are spotted with angry blisters like someone has tossed acid at them. "She had holy instruments, the bloody hag. Almost got me with the holy water. I don't think the priest who blessed it was very holy or I'd be a smear on the floor and you'd be getting ground under her heel about now."

The wounds are awful but also strangely relieving. Aziraphale is a little terrified to admit it, even to herself, but she needs to not be wrong about the measure she has of Crowley. Finding out they failed at bluffing an old harridan out of their territory and ended up in an ill-advised fight as a result is much more in line with her impressions than a demon who'd come to an old woman's home and murder her in cold blood. She supposes they could be lying about the details, about any number of things—she's only just met them, a _demon_ —but… well. There isn't a good explanation, really. Any time she tries to look at it logically, she invariably circles back to the bone-deep need to believe Crowley is exactly what they seem: chaos threaded through with compassion.

"I believe you," she says finally. "You're still a wretch for picking such a senseless fight and for tricking me, but… I believe you."

Crowley shrugs asymmetrically and limps cautiously closer, favoring their left leg. "I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not, really. I'll admit, I heard you coming up the walk and sort of panicked, but I had a thought that maybe if you heard everything I was trying to tell you before from someone whose opinion you might trust, you'd hear it this time."

They aren't wrong.

Or, maybe it's simply the repetition. Hearing someone validating the secret corners of her heart, hearing someone offer a choice at once so simple and so devastating that she's never even considered it before… All of it is a lot.

"Did you mean it?" she asks. Her eyes are stuck on the bulge of Crowley's belly, the fate they'd spared her. "The choices. You could help me with either?"

Crowley sighs long through their nose. "Yeah, I could," they admit grudgingly. "A little curse to make you more biddable, care a little less when they hurt you. It wouldn't be a lot—you wouldn't walk into fire just because they asked. But it might make it a bit easier for you to shave off all those interesting bits of you when they ask."

She closes her eyes against the offer, because she knows it shouldn't tempt her, but by God she is considering it, just a little. It would be easier, is the thing. A magic potion to numb her just enough that she could squeeze back into her place without minding the constant chafe.

"Or," Crowley says, this time laying the suggestive lilt on thick, "I could send you down the same path as Adam and Eve, give you a little trinket that will lead you right to them so you'd have somewhere safe to land. Not to bias you one way or the other, but as a limited one-time offer I could even miracle you up a little bag of the things you love most from your cottage. Some favorite bookssss, maybe?" They arch their eyebrows invitingly.

"My dear, you already tipped your hand back in the orchard," Aziraphale admonishes.

Crowley favors her with a broad grin and rocks back on their heels, only to grimace mid motion and let out a string of curses. "The old bat really did a number on me. Ugh. I wasn't kidding about the limited time offer, angel. I'm going to need to sleep for about a week after that, so the clock's ticking."

They look down and lift up a foot to examine red-raw soles with flaking scales. The sight makes both bile and sympathy well up in Aziraphale's throat, and she takes a fortifying breath.

"They're going to notice Grandmother is gone, and my leaving would be awfully suspicious timing," she points out. "What if they come looking for me?"

Crowley looks back up at her with surprise written on their face. "Shit, uh…"

Aziraphale hesitates a moment before reaching out and hooking a fat curl of red hair resting on Crowley's collarbone around her finger. The curl immediately twines around her knuckles, and Crowley flushes almost the same shade as their hair.

"Crowley, if it's not too much trouble, could you spread the rumor that you've eaten me too?" she asks and doesn't resist the impish urge to flutter her eyelashes at them a bit.

"Pffft, ah, hmm, yeah, uh—holy hell, angel!" Crowley splutters before throwing their head back and cackling.

Aziraphale feels an answering smile stretching her mouth wide and doesn't do a thing to tamp it down. When Crowley looks back down and sees it, their expression freezes momentarily before their manic grin softens.

"If you like, angel," they agree.

Crowley makes good on their offer and, after strict instructions for what to picture in her mind, a snap produces her favorite travel bag stuffed full of a few necessities and a judicious selection of her favorite keepsakes and books. It's not nearly enough, but it's more that she ever would have expected when she set out this morning, and for that she's grateful.

"See you around, Aziraphale," Crowley says as she turns to leave.

She pauses. "Aren't you coming out?"

Crowley spreads their hands wide to indicate the room, which makes the nightgown draw tight against their belly. "Who's going to kick me out?"

Aziraphale makes a face at them. She feels some vague shame that she doesn't feel more upset about Grandmother, but… well, sometimes things aren't so black and white, she supposes. Though she doesn't like that Grandmother is dead, she is glad Crowley is not, and she is even more glad that now she will never have to meet the old woman.

Still, it is undeniably grim and _rude_ to sleep in the bed of the person you just swallowed whole. Unfortunately, she thinks pointing this out would only encourage the demon.

"Thank you, Crowley," she says, instead of arguing.

"Shut up," Crowley grumbles.

.

.

.

The path Crowley described that Adam and Eve took requires some doubling back down one of the safer trails that leads to Grandmother's house before she's to take a fork in the path back northeast. Aziraphale walks it and admires with some chagrin how much less forbidding the trees look here. She isn't sure if it's due to her new perspective or if this is a manifestation of what Crowley deems "safe," but she appreciates the brief respite either way.

She left her basket with Crowley, not wanting to carry both it and her bag. It sways companionably in counterpoint to her gait at her side. The cloak she'd tossed onto the ashes in the fireplace, much to Crowley's delight. Somehow, in all the preparations, the matter of the brooch never came up.

Now, she runs a thoughtful finger over the swirls of the sigil and pets the serpent head gently. She could go back and leave it for Crowley to find when they wake up. But they had said they could come find her if they needed it back, and there still is a ways for her to go before she's out of the woods. The subtle warmth of the silver is a comfort, and she reasons she can come back to the wood once she's better equipped and track the demon down to hand it back.

She's so lost in her musing that it takes her a moment to realize someone is singing further along the path, beyond where it curves gently behind the trees.

Aziraphale stops and listens. It could be a traveler. Or, it could be a spirit or a demon or possibly any number of troublesome things. She clutches the brooch briefly like a talisman and then moves her hand to the hilt of her dagger warily.

The singing gradually gets loud enough that she can make out not just the words but the voice singing them. She freezes up in terror.

Sandalphon is walking the path to Grandmother's house.

Oh, what a fool she is. Of course they would send someone to make sure she arrived, if only to make sure she was submitting to her correction. Or, if worse came to worse, to know whether they needed to search the wood for a sign of a body.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," she wheezes quietly and looks about her wildly before plunging into the trees to the left of the path to avoid being seen.

Within thirty seconds, Sandalphon rounds the bend leading a donkey pulling a little cart stuffed with parcels and jugs and a few small crates. Supplies, she thinks. She would be another mouth to feed for some unknown period of time, after all. The handle of an axe and the butt of a gun jut up over either shoulder like wings, and a giant cross and a more pagan talisman against evil hang prominently around his neck.

Cold horror sweeps through her. "Crowley," she whispers, and then she's stumbling as quickly and as quietly as she can through the underbrush back toward Grandmother's house.

Her clothes are snagged and stained, and she has a painful stitch in her side, by the time she bursts back into the clearing and races across the grass to the cottage door. She barely gets the handle turned before she's throwing all her weight against it. She slams it shut behind her and hurtles into the bedroom, kicking the door closed as she passes through. Then, she's grasping the figure sprawled out on the bed sleeping by the shoulders and shaking them urgently.

"Crowley, _Crowley,_ " she cries, "wake up, you infuriating serpent!"

Crowley stirs woozily under her hands. "Angel?" they slur. "What's wrong?" They paw gently at her arms with their hands as they crack open yellow eyes.

"Sandalphon is on his way with all sorts of things that could kill you, that's what's wrong! Oh, 'who's going to kick me out?'" she mimics shrilly. "Get up, get up, you need to get out. _We_ need to get out."

"Who…? Oh. Oh!" Crowley finally seems to snap awake. They submit to Aziraphale's tugging finally and clamber out of the bed. "Shit, did he see you?" they ask urgently, catching hold of Aziraphale's hands from where she's still trying to tug them away from the bed.

"I don't think so, but he will if we don't _go_. I wasn't too far ahead," she says, using the tether of their hands to pull Crowley toward the window in the back. It's small, but she thinks they might be able to squeeze through.

From the front of the house they hear a faint call as Sandalphon announces his arrival in the clearing.

"No time," Crowley says grimly. "There's not enough cover, and I don't want to risk him seeing you." They look around the room wildly before crouching down and pulling her with them. "Here, under the bed, quick."

Aziraphale resists the gentle shoving. "What? Are we meant to hide until he falls asleep? Surely he'll get suspicious eventually and search the house."

The sound of the front door opening and Sandalphon's voice calling for Grandmother, much closer, rattles her enough that Crowley's able to push her mostly prone.

"I'm going to distract him," they hiss. "Just—! Get under the bed, angel."

Aziraphale reluctantly rolls under, but holds Crowley's hand until the last second. "What do you mean, distract?" she whispers back, but dread is already pooling in her gut.

Crowley's eyes are much too bright and vividly yellow for the dimness of the room. Their mouth is set in a grim line for a suspended moment before they whisper, "Whatever you do, don't look."

Then they're standing, and Aziraphale feels something heavy and oppressive roll through the room.

While the room had been dim before, now it's nearly pitch black. The darkness she can see around the edges of the bed under and through the short dust ruffle ripples and shifts. After a moment, she realizes it's not a trick of her eyes. The darkness is actually moving because it's not darkness at all.

Hesitantly, she reaches out a hand to the black mass abutting the bed. Her fingertips brush the same silky texture she's felt every time she's touched Crowley's skin, except now the feeling of scales is undeniable and their size is alarming. The tail—for she realizes it must be a tail—shifts under her fingertips. It takes her several panicked heartbeats to gather her courage, but she flattens her whole hand to the serpent's body and squeezes once in reassurance before pulling back and curling into the exact center of the floor under the bed.

Vaguely, she's been aware that Sandalphon's voice has continued to call in the front room and even briefly moved back to the front lawn again as he's been looking for Grandmother. Now, his tone is stern and alarmed, and his boots thump heavily across the floor of the front room as he makes his way to the bedroom.

He throws the door open, and something _hisses_.

The sound echoes in every corner of the room, simultaneously loud and soft, close and far off. It slithers into her ears and into her mind and drags out every memory of every fear she's ever had simultaneously. The sound is a warning and a declaration of intent, and somehow it carries a feeling of loathing and rage so palpable tears spring immediately to her eyes and she has to bite back a gasping sob.

Aziraphale curls into herself and wraps her arms around her head to try to escape it. As she does, her chin pressing to her chest, warm metal brushes her jaw. Suddenly, the hiss is just a hiss: unnerving, but only to the degree she typically feels when encountering an upset snake in the brush. Relief swamps through her, and she unwinds one arm so she can clasp the brooch securely in her palm.

Sandalphon shouts, and a gunshot goes off. The noise is deafening in the small space, and Aziraphale chokes back a terrified sob. The hiss shifts into an unholy shriek, and the tail looped around the edges of the bed writhes and pulls away as Crowley retreats to a corner of the room.

"You!" Sandalphon says, trying for severe but unable to hide the tremble in his voice. "Always interfering! Where's Grandmother?"

"Closssse," Crowley rasps, sounding far too high up, like they're near the ceiling. They give a series of sharp hisses that Aziraphale thinks are meant to be a laugh. "Unlesss you want to join her, I sssuggest you leave."

"Abomination!" Sandalphon cries. "You've thwarted our good works for the last time. I'll skin you myself and make a belt of your hide."

"Not bloody likely," Crowley scoffs. "Now get out! And if you ever try to ssset up another houssse of horrors in my wood again, I'll come gobble you up in your own bed."

Sandalphon doesn't reply, just yells and lunges further into the room. From the way Crowley yelps and the rasp of scales jerking across the floor, she assumes Sandalphon has the axe or something equally sharp now.

The two lurch around the room, grunts punctuated by the occasional hoarse shout and the sound of one body or another thudding hard into the walls or wardrobe. For all of their demonic posturing, the fight doesn't sound like it's going in Crowley's favor. Crowley avoids the bed, which Aziraphale gradually realizes is probably hindering their ability to maneuver. Still, she knows they have magic—has seen them snap things into and out of existence—so she's not sure why it sounds, increasingly, like Crowley is _losing_.

She chances a shift closer to the edge of the bed and peeks out from under the dust ruffle. Sandalphon is wielding the axe in one hand but also has the cross and pagan-looking talisman lifted from around his neck and extended in front of him like a shield. From the angle she's at, she can't see more of Crowley than the edges of huge, looped coils writhing at the far end of the room. Their underbelly is bright red and on clear display as they stretch up the wall toward the ceiling. The few gashes sluggishly dripping blood she can see are enough to make her stomach drop. Even if Sandalphon can't get close enough to reach Crowley's head, which must be hovering somewhere too high to reach even with the long-handled axe, at this rate he might successfully bleed Crowley to death.

Crowley lunges then, and Sandalphon steps quickly back toward the bed.

His boot lands inches from her face.

Aziraphale stares.

She's already made so many life-altering choices today, and she is so tired. The terror flooding through her, however, brings with it a measure of clarity. This isn't truly a new choice, she realizes. It's merely the next logical one along a path she's been walking ever since she decided this morning to take a friendly seeming demon up on their offer to improve her lot. For the first time in a very long time—before the fight in her had been steadily chipped away—she's been choosing her own wants and needs over those dictated by the village and its leaders. And right now, she chooses to help the only creature who's encouraged her to make those choices, who is in fact doing their best to defend her ability to keep making them.

Aziraphale reaches out like a viper strike, grabs Sandalphon's ankle, and yanks.

He yelps and stumbles forward. He wrenches his foot out of her grasp and regains his balance quickly, but drops the axe and the talismans in the process.

Aziraphale scrambles back away from the edge of the bed, curling up by the wall under the headboard.

Sandalphon grunts and curses, and she hears the drag of metal across the floor as he reaches for the axe again, but there's also the harsh scraping sound of furiously shifting coils.

Sandalphon shrieks, and the sound cuts off abruptly.

Aziraphale slaps her hands over her ears and buries her face in her knees. She hums quietly to herself and tries not to hear anything that might be happening as tears leak from her eyes. She doesn't regret her choice, but she doesn't relish the outcome either.

After she judges a few minutes have passed, she cautiously lifts her hands from her ears, holds her breath, and listens.

Perfect silence meets her ears, apart from the pounding of her blood as her heart beats frantically in her chest.

"Crowley?" she whispers. Then, when she doesn't hear anything, more loudly, "Crowley? Is it… should I come out?"

Another agonizing minute passes before she realizes no one is there to answer her, and she crawls out from under the bed. The room is empty apart from a few splatters of blood, some high up on the walls and ceiling. She swallows down nausea and creeps out into the main room. There's nothing there either, except for a few smears of blood along the floor in a path toward the front door hanging wide.

The trail of blood continues out onto the front lawn. It twists and bends across the clearing along a path of flattened, slightly scorched grass, looking very much like a giant serpent has slithered quickly away.

Aziraphale stares at where it disappears into a rough hole in the underbrush where no path opens up.

She sits down hard on the front stoop and allows herself a good ten minutes to shake and let silent tears drip from her eyes.

Then, she stands, brushes her trousers off, and rounds the side of the house to find the cart and the donkey.

She leads the donkey back along the path that will, eventually, take her to the other side of the wood. For its part, the donkey seems a little bewildered but mostly resigned to be traversing the same way so soon.

When she reaches the fork in the path that will lead her out of the wood, she finds her forgotten travel bag waiting for her in the middle of the track. The sight makes her burst into grateful, devastated tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spoilery content warnings:**
> 
>   * (more) references to emotional/psychological abuse: more descriptions and discussions of the way the village has been controlling and emotionally/psychologically abusing Aziraphale, and references to the fact that Grandmother would have done the same.
>   * an offer of consensual psychological injury: Crowley offers to place a curse on Aziraphale that will make her a little more biddable, if she truly wants to go back to the village and if she thinks it would help her to fit in better. It's offered as a choice, to balance out an opposing offer to help make it easier for Aziraphale to leave and start a new life elsewhere. Crowley isn't happy about making the offer, but is doing it in the interest of providing two equal choices (or what they both might consider equal choices, under the terrible circumstances).
>   * fairy tale levels of horror: yoooo, so some people are going to get eaten by the Big Bad Snake and it's gonna be a bit scary when it happens and Aziraphale is gonna be a little roughed up emotionally about it.
>   * minor character death: Grandmother is eaten off-screen; we just "see" the results in that Crowley has a bulge where they're, uh, digesting. Sandalphon is eaten sort-of on-screen. Aziraphale doesn't witness it (she's hiding under the bed), but sort of hears it before she covers her ears.
>   * non-graphic descriptions of blood and injury: Crowley is injured in their fights with Grandmother (off screen) and Sandalphon (sort-of on-screen, since Aziraphale is hiding under the bed and doesn't witness much directly). They sustain burns and cuts (off screen), and there is some description of resulting wounds and blood, but it doesn't get graphic.
> 

> 
> Ahhhhhh one chapter to go! There's a happy ending, I promise!


	4. Someone is on your side (our side)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings for this chapter beyond a general "Crowley is giant serpent demon" reminder. :)

Aziraphale goes to the dark wood with a basket of wine and cakes and a sturdy, powder blue cloak clasped with a silver brooch in the shape of a writhing serpent.

Somewhere down one of the winding, shadowed paths is Crowley. Aziraphale is determined to draw them out with the gifts and then pin the slippery menace down for a long overdue conversation.

Even with a very full year and then some between her and the last time she walked in the woods, the path to Grandmother's house is still seared fresh in her mind. She watches the trees and the shadowy spaces between as she walks, looking for a flash of red or scales. At every bend in the trail, she half expects to stumble across the demon, or more probably something set to harry her journey. But the wood is peaceful and the walk uneventful.

When she arrives at the clearing, the cottage has been razed to its foundations, and the lawn has been thoroughly reclaimed by the wood, choked with wildflowers and brambles.

The orchard is just as lovely as she remembers, but likewise empty. She picks a few apples to top off her basket and doesn't linger.

Finally, when she knows it must be getting past noon from the way her stomach is complaining, she simply stops in the middle of a likely path and clears her throat.

"My, it would be a _shame_ to drink this _very lovely wine_ and eat these _homemade honey cakes_ all by myself," she proclaims loudly to the trees. "If only I knew an irritating serpent demon who might like to share some with me."

The underbrush just up to the left of the path rustles irritatedly, and then Crowley is peeling themselves from the shadow of a gnarled tree trunk.

"Someone's sake," they hiss, propping themselves up by the shoulder against the tree and crossing their arms sullenly. "What the everloving fuck do you think you're doing?"

Aziraphale raises her eyebrows loftily. "Trying to find the miserable fiend of a serpent who saved my life so I can invite them on a picnic, obviously. Please do tell me if you've seen them."

Crowley rolls their eyes skyward and pushes away from the tree to saunter closer. "Yes, all right, ask a stupid question…" They roll a hand in the air to indicate the rest of the saying before coming to a stop much too close to her, but somehow managing to avoid looming.

The consistency and consideration makes something warm curl in her chest, and Aziraphale lets it unfurl as a beaming smile.

"Hello, Crowley."

Crowley looks a little poleaxed by the greeting. "Uh, hi. You, um… you're looking happy."

"I am," she agrees and, feeling bold, reaches out to touch their wrist briefly. "Would you like to share some wine and cakes with me?"

A complicated series of emotions flash across Crowley's face, mostly in the eyebrows, before they sigh gustily and hold out an elbow for her to take.

"Yeah, all right, come on. I've got a place we can go."

Aziraphale wriggles in delight and doesn't hesitate to hug Crowley's arm to her side. The demon gives a strangled-sounding grunt of surprise but doesn't pull away.

A short walk down several confusing forks in the path that Aziraphale is certain didn't exist before Crowley decided they did, they arrive in a small clearing filled to bursting with raised garden beds and a small sod-sided cottage in the middle.

"Oh!" Aziraphale exclaims, instantly smitten with not just the look but the _feel_ of the place. It reminds her a bit of a much greener version of her little corner of the old village. Bees bumble and butterflies flit about them as they amble up a winding stone path from the edge of the wood to the front porch. "This is lovely, Crowley. Yours?"

"Er, yeah," they say and hold the door wide for her to enter ahead of them.

She steps in, and the first thing that strikes her is the sharp scent of wood and lacquer and how pristine the whole room looks.

"Have you been living here long?" she asks, thinking she already knows the answer by how new everything feels.

Crowley shrugs and wanders to stand awkwardly by the small table where they must take their meals. They drum long fingers against the surface, talons clacking against the lacquered surface.

She holds back a smile and crosses to join them, setting her basket in the center of the table. A picnic had been her original thought, but now she's determined to poke through as much of Crowley's new home as possible in whatever time they allow for the visit.

The next few minutes are spent fetching plates and cups and setting out the spread, which Crowley augments with a mild cheese and a bowl full of berries from their garden. Aziraphale fixes both plates with a little of everything while Crowley pours the wine, and it's so much like any other visit she's had with friends she's made in Tadfield that Aziraphale can't help but wiggle happily in her seat.

"What's got you in a tizzy?" Crowley asks, kicking back into a sprawl in their chair and cradling their wine glass to their chest.

"Just enjoying your company, my dear," she says and is fascinated by how such a simple compliment makes the demon's cheeks pink up.

"I'm terrible company," they mutter into their glass before taking a healthy swig.

"Oh, very fiendish, of course," she agrees as she smears a bit of the cheese over an apple slice. "I never meant to imply otherwise."

Crowley pulls a face at the appeasement and then visibly decides to change the subject. "You got the crates I sent?"

She beams at them, and Crowley leans back in surprise. "Oh, I did, you lovely thing! Thank you, truly. It made settling in so much easier when I wasn't having to start from scratch. Although Adam and Eve were _not_ impressed with your note. 'I'll find you if I need _it_ back,' is a, and I quote, 'bloody creepy thing to say to someone.'" She touches the brooch a little self-consciously, wondering if now is the right time to give it back or if she should wait until the end of the meal.

"S'a piece of my, er, magic, I guess you could say. It's how I knew where to send the rest of your things, and why I was able to keep you from getting ambushed when you were on your little adventure today."

"I _knew_ you were following me!" she declares triumphantly and sets her wine glass down emphatically as she leans forward in her chair. "Why did you let me wander around all morning, you absolute beast?"

They roll their eyes. "I didn't know if you were here to see me, did I?"

She scoffs. "Who else do I know who lurks in the wood?"

They splutter over a few aborted retorts before giving up and slouching down even further in their chair sullenly.

It's fascinating, Aziraphale thinks, how off-balance Crowley seems now that she's found her own. Perhaps more of their confidence that day so long ago had been a bluff than she'd ever considered. If Crowley hadn't been acting so solicitous since finally revealing themselves to her, she might even think she was misremembering the frisson of something between them.

She supposes she'll just have to be the one to ask the questions this time.

"How have you been, Crowley?" she asks and stretches a hand across the tabletop to rest near their own.

Crowley eyes her hand warily. "A bit bored. Now the village has stopped sending people into the wood, I haven't had as much entertainment. I think you've already worked it out, but I built a _house_ , angel. I'm going a bit spare."

"Hmm, so you wouldn't mind if I were to visit again?"

They're still watching her hand, but their fingers are twitching restlessly on the tabletop, moving incrementally closer with each fidget. "You've got a whole new life in that new town of yours," they counter. "Probably all set up at a new library, friends aplenty, babysitting Adam and Eve's spawn now and again?" they guess.

"Oh, I decided not to work for the library. Well, I did for a time, but…" She fiddles with brooch before forcing herself to stop. "I find I'm a little reluctant to dig my roots too deep just yet. I've taken up bookbinding and restoration work full time now. It gives me options. If I ever needed to move on quickly."

Crowley's mouth twists in sympathy. The confession and the lingering scars it reveals seems to give them the courage they need to finally grasp her fingers in their own.

"Very sensible," they murmur.

"Yes. I'm sure given more time I won't feel so… skittish, I suppose. In the meantime, my new line of work means my schedule is quite flexible, and I can work from just about wherever I want, provided I'm willing to bring some of my supplies with me." She rubs her thumb delicately over the top of one of Crowley's talons. "I would very much like to call upon you, my dear, if you would welcome it." She keeps her eyes fixed on their entwined fingers in case the demon needs a moment to consider.

Crowley shifts their feet under the table until one bumps and comes to rest against the edge of her boot. "Um, yeah, that would be… I wouldn't mind you coming by, if you want."

"That's very good to hear," she says, and dares to look up and meet their gaze.

Crowley's eyes are wide and a little wild at the corners, like they're not entirely sure how to handle the conversation but they're determined not to back down.

"There's probably something you should know, though," they blurt out suddenly, fingers squeezing convulsively against her own. "Before you, uh, start planning more picnics."

"Yes?"

They withdraw their hand then and get up from the table, only to pace restlessly around the room.

"Last time we met was… well, it was kind of a disaster, yeah? And I'm not sure how much you saw when I was—" They cut themselves off and scrub frustrated fingers through their hair, sending the long curls roiling with nervous energy. "Look, I'm a bloody serpent demon, all right? And I think you should know what that really means before, ngk, any, ahhhhh, fraternizing."

"Fraternizing?" she parrots back, bemused.

"Or whatever you want to call it," they say dismissively. "Point is, you should really see who you're becoming friends with."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says with what she thinks is extreme patience, "I saw you when you were digesting an old woman. I listened to you eat a man. I _helped_ you in the eating of him. And still..." She spreads her hands wide to indicate the meal on the table and her very presence in the cottage.

Crowley rolls their eyes again. "Just let me show you my true form, all right? That way if you're horrified beyond all reason at least we've gotten it all done and dusted before..." They trail off with a frustrated huff.

Oh, Aziraphale thinks to herself, they're absolutely terrified. A giddy, if a bit guilty, feeling wells in her chest, and she decides to put them out of their misery.

"Yes, of course. My apologies." She shifts in her chair to face Crowley more squarely and folds her hands neatly in her lap. "Please, whenever you're ready."

Crowley boggles at her and then scowls, muttering not quite under their breath that they should be saying that to her. But they don't waste much more time before shaking their head back, rolling their shoulders, and _shifting_.

Scales ripple down the center of Crowley's being and spread outward, brushing off the appearance of limbs and skin and cloth trappings as they do like discarding a cloak. And at the same time, Crowley is growing, dark and massive in black-and-red coils that erupt into being and curl and double back until it's not certain whether it's one serpent or a whole writhing seethe of them rapidly spreading across the floor, filling the room with their whispering susurrations.

Soon nearly half the room is full of dark serpent, twisted and lurking amidst the sparse furniture. Crowley's head hovers in the far corner of the room near the ceiling where the shadows gather unnaturally and make their bright yellow eyes glow like lamps.

Aziraphale takes it all in. She supposes if she didn't already know that Crowley could transform their corporation so drastically, she might find the end result more shocking. As it stands, while there's a moment of vertigo where her mind fights to reconcile the patently supernatural aspects with the more mundane, she quickly finds Crowley's new shape singular but not unsettling.

"My, what big eyes you have," she remarks inanely, because they are quite large compared to before.

"... That's your big takeaway?" Crowley deadpans from their position in the corner, which is rapidly looking less like a lurk and more like a sulk. They open their jaws wide—too wide—and hiss.

Aziraphale can't help a reflexive gasp. There's a sucking blackness at the back of Crowley's maw that suggests they could swallow down anything they made it their business to devour, whether a Grandmother, an officious bully, or things much larger—whole villages, entire woods, possibly the world.

And yet… she is left not with the impression of a monster ready to threaten her but a petrified snake puffing itself up to warn off being crushed under an uncaring heel.

"You certainly are fearsome, my dear," she says in a tone she hopes comes over more sincere than placating. Because she can feel the menace that Crowley exudes, but it enfolds rather than targets, which makes it difficult to feel anything other than safe.

Crowley hisses at her again, this time managing to sound offended, so she thinks she must have missed the mark.

"Oh, come now," she says, abruptly impatient. "Do you _want_ me to be terrified beyond all reason?"

Crowley grumbles and grizzles to themselves, but doesn't answer properly.

Aziraphale stands tall and begins navigating with care around the shifting loops of tail to get closer. Crowley reluctantly shifts lower to the floor and rearranges some of their coils so that when she comes abreast of their head there's a clear space for her to stand and they can look each other in the eye.

Aziraphale takes her time studying Crowley's serpentine face. It's eerie and beautiful, and she has a feeling they would roll their eyes if she were to say so.

Now that she stands within the relative clutches of Crowley's mobius strip of a body, the near constant shifting has agitated to a proper writhe. Sections of tail rise and fall around her like waves on a lake or wind rippling over wheatfields. There's a tension like held-back enthusiasm to the movement, and Aziraphale abruptly makes the connection.

"Oh, it's like your hair!" she says. And then, unable to tamp down how utterly charmed she is, she practically coos, "Conducting yourself like a gentledemon, I see."

Crowley sighs, long and beleaguered, but the shadows in the room are starting to feel less ominous and more sheltering, so she thinks they probably aren't properly upset.

"Said I would, didn't I?" they say finally, and there's just a hint of tease creeping back into their tone. "You're really not bothered?"

Aziraphale tsks and holds a hand out, palm up, to a nearby coil. It slides eagerly over her palm and wraps around her forearm, only settling as much weight as she can easily bear.

"Crowley, dear, I think you, more than many, can appreciate it when I say I do not mistake appearance for intent. Even if I'm still cross with you for that trick you played on me at Grandmother's house, you showed more compassion and care toward me in one day than almost anyone had in… far too long. So even with your big eyes, and big fangs, and big, well, everything—goodness, there is quite a lot of you—no, I'm not bothered." She hugs the coil draped over her arm to her chest and presses her cheek against it. "I am, in fact, the opposite of bothered."

The demon has no articulate response to this, but they do take her gesture in the spirit it was intended and don't hesitate to crowd closer. Loops and straights and twists of tail press in on all sides of her until she could lean back and still be held up. The great wedge of their head slips serpent quick around her shoulders and comes to rest across her chest, the tip of their snout nosing gently against the underside of her jaw. She wraps her free arm around the back of Crowley's neck and holds them as tight as she dares, relishing in the feel of being held so completely and yet not feeling a bit restricted.

"Oh, this is quite lovely," she says, resigned to how thick her voice comes out and the prickling at the corners of her eyes. Crowley does have a habit of stirring her up, the wicked thing.

Crowley doesn't seem capable of words just at the moment, but they press closer for a delicious moment and flick a forked tongue to brush delicately at the corner of her jaw, which says quite enough.

She never does get around to giving the brooch back, and Crowley never asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh, it's the end! So, while I definitely wrote this to be read as them entering into a capital R "Relationship" by the end, I did leave it a wee bit ambiguous as to the type, so feel free to head canon however you wish. :D 
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this, even if I, uh, turned a lot (a lot) of the traditional red riding hood / grandmother-wolf folktale central themes on their head. By which I mean the wolf character isn't the villain NOR are the main characters' interactions a high-key metaphor for sex. And let me tell you, as an ace person who decided to write a red riding hood au with the wolf-character as the protagonist, I def had more than a few moments of "wait, why did i decide to do this again???" as I was brainstorming, BUT I think I managed to do an OK job of hanging the mashup on some of the other themes in those stories, such as physical journeys that change how you relate to the world, something monstrous posing as something good, and a heroine cleverer than most give her credit for (well, on that last point, only if you ignore Perrault and the Grimms, but they made up a lot of classist, misogynistic bs whole cloth, so they can shove it).
> 
> If you're interested in the history of red riding hood-type stories and how they've evolved, I can recommend "Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked" by Catherine Orenstein. (It's from the early aughts, so it does use some older terms for LGBTQ issues that we've evolved past, but imho it looks like the author made a good-faith effort to use the most current vocabulary of the time in a respectful manner, so take that for what you will. If you're interested but need more particulars, feel free to DM me on Tumblr.)
> 
> Edit: I ALMOST FORGOT! Crowley's hair in particular was inspired in no small part by sleep-paralysis-demon!Crowley's spooky, "kind of a limb in its own right" hair in entanglednow's lovely fic ["Be Still, My Love, Be Still"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871301/chapters/57380941), but I worried I might be spoiling the connection between Crowley's hair and their coils thing for anyone who's already read that fic if I mentioned it too soon. :3


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